Don't Tell John
by consultingat221b
Summary: Mary discovers Sherlock has been keeping a major secret about his health. There is one person he really doesn't want to find out. John. He would do anything to stop John from finding out, so he confides in Mary. His secret is difficult to keep. Angst in later chapters, but there will be Johnlock as a frienship relationship. Rate T for some language and graphic descriptions.
1. Don't Tell John

I might be taking a creative writing course next year, I am no writer and I figured that if I get into doing some creative writing for fanficiton it would make writing stories a lot easier. Besides writing and reading are some of the joys of life so I just hope you will find this story interesting. The idea just sort of appeared in my head when it was revealed that Mary and Sherlock spend time together without John. There will be Johnlock, but as a friendship relationship. My new brotp is Mary and Sherlock so there will be a lot of that and I don't want to spoil too much but yeah… Also any medical information I have gotten from my own knowledge or the internet, so do forgive me if anything is wrong and feel free to correct me in the comments.

The story is set after the events of His Last Vow, Mary is not pregnant, even though I love that she is the show I think it might complicate this story. Moriarty may or may not come into this story; I like to remain slightly enigmatic…

My tumblr is consultingat221b

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the DVD and original books. Everything else belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I wish I owned more and that the situations I put these characters in could match that of these wonderful creators, alas, I don't.

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The steam from the teapot puffed out warm air, it resembled an old London steam train but smelt significantly better than the smog that would have invaded the vast city in the 19th and early 20th century. Two hands entered Sherlock's peripheral vision and placed the tea on the table beside him. However, he continued to stare into the kitchen past the chair which John would have spent the say in two years ago. He blinked slowly and irregularly.

The figure that sat on the arm of the chair went unnoticed.

'Sherlock,' a voice interrupted his train of thought as he shifted his head and raised his towards the source of the sing-song resonance, Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if to question why he was being disturbed.

Mary sat on the edge of John's armchair and her presence surprised Sherlock. She smiled sweetly and softly. Sherlock continued to comprise a confused, naïve and childish 'why-are-you-here-and-when-did-you-get-here' look on his face.

She realised sharply what was on Sherlock's mind, and her eyes widened and as she gestured kind-heartedly towards the fine, bone china mug that was on the small table next to the tall, curly haired figure. Sherlock's expression changed to sheer disappointment as he noticed the stereotypically British drink, then his eyes brightened when Mary rustled a packet of digestive biscuits, 'Mrs Hudson's always rambling on about your love for something to soak up the tea,' she said as she began to open the cylindrical, tinfoil packet, 'I don't quite know if you like this brand. It had the prettiest packet and Tesco's value probably doesn't cut it for the brother of the British government!'

Sherlock raised the sides of cheeks suddenly and, without baring his teeth, flashed a slight smile. He realised that Mary would rather spend £3 on some biscuits than spend less than 50 pence on a cut-price brand from the Tesco's on the Marylebone road. She cared.

He uttered a thank you and let the air escape his mouth evenly as he blew on the cup of tea to try and cool it down.

Mary picked up on the fact that Sherlock's fingers were trembling, 'No case?' She asked this out of curiosity, Sherlock was almost always craving a cigarette when his fingers shook. She didn't need the deductive skills of the Holmes' brothers to distinguish these details.

'Nope,' Sherlock said and emphasised the 'P' sound while spitting slightly.

'Sherlock, is that a lie? It's just Moriarty is back and his face was plastered on every screen in England and your, extremely short, exile was ended so that you could help out.' Mary lifted herself to a point where she was now standing above Sherlock with her arms crossed over each other and a worried frown was on her face.

'He' not a threat, Mary,' the abnormally clever man insisted.

A small sound escalated from a chuckle to a large intake of breath, this soon adapted to a dreary exhale. Mary was sighing. Looking over to Sherlock in disbelief she shook her head. Her face scrunched into a face that Sherlock decided looked like she had taken a bite out of a juicy red apple only to discover it had the tang of a bitter lemon. The head shaking continued. Honestly, Sherlock thought she would have a nasty case of whiplash if she continued. 'Am I wrong in thinking he tried to kill you a couple of times?'

'Indestructible. Invincible. Logical.' Sherlock exclaimed, 'I never died.'

Mary giggled slightly as she looked up to Sherlock. He looked vacant. Almost as if he was floating in space and numbed by the views of galaxies and sights that looked like black sheets with thousands of holes pricked into them and multicoloured lights behind, causing a vast array of stars and a beautiful spectacle. He would probably label that as boring.

'Oh believe me, we know you never died! He's out there though, possibly planning to hurt you again. You have been in the papers. He knows you are not dead. You could bump into him on a case and find him holding a gun and then that's it for you,' Mary couldn't make eye contact with Sherlock because he continuously seemed so spaced out in the poorly lit room.

Sherlock smiled. Well, if ever a smile was not a smile, this was one of those times. A better description would be to say his lopsided smile showed contempt, and with Sherlock being… Sherlock, he was not making an attempt to be cruel, he just did not know how to avoid hurting someone. 'I have encountered people with guns before; they are the least of my comprehensive range of problems regarding others,' for the first time today their eyes met briefly and Mary shuddered as she was reminded of the pain she cause this man merely a few months ago, 'besides that is not how James Moriarty works. He likes to dance.'

Mary snorted and the sting of the blazing liquid which she was drinking caused her to flinch, 'a bit like you!' She giggled as she recalled the joyful memories of the day when she became Mary Watson. That was he name. That was her legal name and it was absolutely good enough.

Sherlock made an illegible noise and then continued to explain how Moriarty was dangerous. He was lethal. The spider at the centre of the web was incredibly venomous. However, he was a low priority. He stated that possibly he should offer him a thank you and they should hug out their differences; after all, he had Moriarty to thank for to luring him out of an exile. It all sounded like a sick joke but Sherlock's sense of humour was oddly dry that it was impractical to attempt differentiating between a joke or genuine truth or an attempt of showing kindness.

The conversation moved along slowly and awkwardly. The conversation would normally last two minutes due to Sherlock's fast witted punch lines, it lasted a lot longer. Years, months, days. Well, only about seven minutes, that was still peculiar.

Seven minutes. That was how long it took Sherlock to notice that John was not in the flat.

'John. John. Where did john go?' Sherlock's nick jolted upwards, downwards and to every feasible angle sharply, as if he might spot john peeping over the top of the bookshelf or lying underneath Sherlock's comfortable armchair.

Mary knew all too well that Sherlock sometimes did not acknowledge the time passing. John had ranted about this millions of times before, whilst Mary would ensure him that it was not Sherlock's fault and sometimes he must have struggled to pay attentions in situations which would make him feel bored. This was different. It seemed less like he was dissociating as a choice to cope with boredom, he looked like his head was swimming. No, downing. Sherlock seemed like he was drowning.

'Sherlock,' Mary said as she squinted to get a better look at how strangely colourless his skin looked, 'You okay?'

He was swaying subtly from side to side, you wouldn't notice he was swaying unless you knew him well and you knew how he normally would sit like an owl and surreptitiously turn his head, but this was different. Sherlock slowly retorted, 'Okay? Me. When am I ever not faultlessly okay?'

'If you want an example now would probably be a pretty good one,' Mary answered. She gulped because she was full of worry. Sherlock had never seemed this vulnerable before. Not when he was being beaten up, not when he was running high-speed to save his best friend, not when he was high and not when he had a bullet wound his body.

Mary's eyes moved upwards to meet with the enigmatic detective's, who was now standing, six foot tall and now staring down at Mary.

'Sherlock, sit down. Now,' commanding the worlds only consulting detective was difficult, because he never did as he was told and often behaved like an insolent child.

'Oh please,' Sherlock tried to scrunch his face and mock the stupidity of Mary's imperative words.

Maybe they weren't so idiotic after all.

'Please,' his voice was softer this time and Mary realised that it was not a rude remark. He was begging. 'Please,' Sherlock breathed his gentle, baritone words heavily.

'What? Please? I don't understand,' Mary spoke quietly and watched strictly.

Sherlock Holmes had never seemed so weak. He stumbled away from the two chairs and towards the vacant, empty space in the living room of 221B Baker Street. Blinking rapidly he attempted to focus his eyes. He had not observed the symptoms properly and therefore he knew that his little secret was not going to stay a little secret for longer.

Mary was wearing a bright orange jumper with some sort of pattern; it stood out from the golden, brown and friendly tones of the flat. Sherlock focussed on her jumper and then it snapped back into his mind. His ideas clicked together again as his extraordinary brainpower slowed down.

Secrets.

Mary rushed towards Sherlock. She seemed to be saying something. Comfort. Words of wisdom. Questions. Sherlock could not distinguish what these subdued words were.

He felt her soothing, affectionate touch against his chilled skin.

Secrets. He had to keep this a secret; he had to rust the apprehensive wife of his best friend with this.

'Don't tell John,' he whispered into Mary's shoulder before falling to the carpeted floor.

The whole occurrence happened very quickly. Sherlock was standing, and then Sherlock hit the ground with a force.

Mary shoved her head to different angles a considerable amount of times in less then two seconds and her senses unexpectedly heightened. She looked to the corner of the room and the windows opposite the road. Then she happened to remember that there were no loud gun noises. Instinctively, Mary had assumed that Sherlock had been shot. Again. She even stared at her own hand to ensure that she was not the culprit.

All it took was a moment to look down and then she rushed to grab the union jack cushion of John's old chair. She placed it, with difficulty, under Sherlock's head and stared up at the clock making sure she knew what time it was.

His body was slowly jerking at first. Then the convulsing started. The violent and uncontrollable shaking of his limbs had started unexpectedly.

Mary's head was splitting. She worked as a receptionist and had had sufficient health training. She knew exactly what she could do in this difficult and frightening situation. However, it became tough to bear in mind what she had to do to aid Sherlock, not because she did not know, she just had no clue why. It happened like a car swivelling on an icy road. She was blind to the fact that this was happening. This was really, actually, properly happening.

It becomes easy to picture these events as things that will certainly not actually happen. It's just another meaningless fact that you are taught how to cope with in certain situations. It isn't.

'Sherlock!' She shouted, and then remembering that he could not hear her she lowered her shocked tone of voice, 'Sherlock, Sherlock. Don't. No, no, it's okay,' she was weary not to touch him in case his jerked a lib towards her and ended up with worse bruising than the inevitable, 'I'm here, Sherlock,' she whispered.

Sherlock Holmes was having a seizure.

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I hope you enjoyed that! It was a bit rushed and I a no writer, but I will update with more explanation in the next chapter and I don't think it will be a long, long fic, but I will keep going if you want me to! Any reviews would be helpful!

Be safe, my lovelies.


	2. Why

I realised the number 1 key was not working properly, and there were a few mistakes which I don't understand how to fix in the last chapter. I will work it out. Shall do more proof reading on this one though! I said I would update regularly, but I have school in the morning and I was up until the morning writing yesterday.

Also, thank you for the reviews. They were encouraging! Thanks so much.

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His limbs were still violently jolting. Mary firmly bit her sweet, cherry lips and tasted the lip balm which she had applied earlier. The taste was sugary, despite it being something that wasn't meant for human consumption she still felt guilty enjoying it when Sherlock had been shuddering frenzied on the untidy floor of his flat. He resembled a child having a tantrum while lying on the floor, refusing to move, and if Mary had only glimpsed at the situation she might have presumed this was what Sherlock was doing. However, she had witnessed his scrawny body crash to the floor and tremble out of his control.

Swallowing hard, Mary glared at the ceiling until the light tainted her vision and temporarily blinded her. While squeezing her eyes tight together she felt a tear being forced out of her eye lid and go on an irritating journey down her cheek. She was far from sad or devastated. The only emotion she could concentrate on was worry. While trying to control her concern she breathed profoundly from her lungs, feeling her lungs expand she attempted to keep her composure under control.

Breathe, Mary, breath, she reminded herself. She could not help but feel that she was being unusually selfish. Worrying was another instinct when you watch a person go through something so terrible, but Sherlock was all that mattered now.

It had been a little over a minute and all that Mary could do was watch. Observing a seizure was no fun. He trembled, grunted, took dangerously short breaths and the events differed from what it looked like on television. It wasn't over in ten seconds of tedious screen time, an ambulance was not called yet and Mary felt as if time had slowed down and the hands of time had been turned back, because a minute could not have really passed.

He was twisting rapidly and it was awful to see the man who was normally so contained in his physical movement jolt like a pen scribbling on a blank piece of paper.

'Shit,' Mary mumbled she didn't swear for the sake of it, but she was distressed and there was little that she could do.

The convulsing had died down and this only caused relief as Mary realised there would be no need to call an ambulance unless they started again. Sighing she edged slightly closer to Sherlock and positioned her anxious fingers on his large, bony hands. Even if he was unconscious Mary felt better knowing that she was attempting to comfort the man.

Hastily, Sherlock's skeletal fingers tensed around her hand and she heard retching. She let go of his hand and reached towards his back, turning his unsurprisingly light body to the side. He landed on his arm. Mary jumped on to her feet and darted to the kitchen to grab a cloth, since there would be no time for Sherlock to gag into the bowl, all she could do was clean up the unsightly mess that was left on the floor.

Mary pursed her lips and frowned at the sight of the man. She wiped the mess off of the carpet to the best of her ability and then contemplated whether she should put her hand near Sherlock's face if he had another seizure.

He didn't.

She decided not to take any chances and let Sherlock lie on the rough, thin, bumpy and uncomfortable carpet with vomit drying on his face. Mary gagged at the thought of something so unsanitary, but it was probably the most harmless idea.

Unhurriedly, she stood on her feet. Knowing that after seizure people are very tired she settled on the plan that she would our Sherlock an ice-cold glass of water. She didn't want him to move for a while and thought that a blanket would be nice so that he could lie down on the sofa for a little while. However, walking to Sherlock's room was unsafe. She needed to keep an eye on him.

She opened the stiff, wooden drawer that had a collection of table cloths inside. She moved the plastic bag out-of-the-way, which had a label on it stating, '**Teeth, fragile, do NOT open.**' She grabbed the blue material and strolled cautiously back to Sherlock's sleeping body.

She budged the table slightly over so that Sherlock had a comprehensible path to the couch. It would be a lot easier for him this way.

She turned around and noticed that Sherlock was lying on his stiff back once more, 'Water?' He requested and he squinted his eyes in trying to focus on the ceiling.

'Oh,' Mary dashed to the kitchen, dodging the microscope and experiments that were laid out, clutched the glass and rushed swiftly back to Sherlock. She took hold of his hand, which was still trembling and not capable of holding a glass firmly. Placing the glass in his grasp she closed her fingers around his and aided him in taking a large sip from the glass. He shuddered from the chill of the water. Then he took speedy gulps and soon the glass was empty. He sighed and moved his head that was masked by his mysterious brown curls in-between his knees.

Mary slithered her hands underneath his sweaty armpits, clearly the seizure had caused him to sweat and this meant he would be tired; she attempted to lift him even though he was not heavy she did not want to damage his fragile body, 'Sherlock, can you try to stand for a moment so you can lie on the sofa?'

'I'm _not_ a child, I'm fine,' he said.

'No, you're not. At least let me care for you like a mother? Just-' she sighed, 'This once.'

He said nothing in response. No witty remarks or indistinguishable noises. He merely nodded his head. Delicately, he shifted his head up and down, exhaling and he was obviously tired because he would normally dismiss Mary's attempts of being good-hearted.

He shuffled over to the couch. The firm carpet must have been the safest pace for him to have a seizure, because he would have tumbled off of the sofa and onto the tabled that Mary had moved, but this most have been a thousand miles more comfortable.

'I poured you some more water,' Mary said softly to Sherlock. She paced it in his hand and trusted him to not drop the glass and let it shatter to the floor. After he drank the water Mary placed her warm hands on his cheeks and twisted his head gently until he was facing her. She has a clean cloth in her hand and tenderly dabbed it on the side of Sherlock's lip. Dried up sick occupied this part of his face. Mary could not leave him like that.

She finished wiping his contoured face and let a sympathetic smile dwell on her round face for a moment. Sherlock broke eye contact quickly, he wasn't angry that Mary had witnessed this seizure but he seemed embarrassed. 'How long?' He asked her, ashamed.

'A bit over two minutes,' she replied quietly and affectionately.

Mary grasped Sherlock's hand again and held onto it tightly. She held it like he was a patient in a hospital bed, breathing his last breaths and saying goodbye without saying a word.

'Stop, Mary. Clearly, you are worried, judging by the,' he exhaled again and struggled to focus on his words, 'Judging by the tight grip of your hand and the fact that you have been too nervous to ask any questions,' he breathed again, struggling to focus on what he was going to say.

Mary looked down, anxiously, 'Sherlock…'

'Ask,' He jolted his head too quickly and flinched because he had clearly managed to bruise himself during the seizure. 'Just ask your questions. I will answer, there is no way in avoiding this conversation and it is the only chance I will have to convince your, relatively intellectual, mind that I am fine.'

She didn't know exactly what to say. She decided that being blunt was something people are normally blissfully ignorant about and asking questions straight and without delay was the best thing to do.

'Why, Sherlock? Why,' she paused, contemplating whether her decision was wrong, and she decided to continue, 'Why did you have a seizure? Do you have epilepsy?'

'I can't answer that,' he stuttered, 'I'm dying, Mary, you know how disturbances in the brain can cause seizures? _I have a brain tumour_.'

Mary felt like a chunk had just been taken from her heart. She felt empty. She stared outside the window to the leisurely drops of rain and heavy-heartedly placed her head in her hands. Her vision clouded as she felt tears well up in her coffee eyes. She didn't know what to do, how are you supposed to act to finding out someone has cancer? She wished she was talking over the internet or sending a text and could think for five minutes and respond without seeming cowardly. In the moment she said the only thing that she could say, 'Oh, Sherlock…'

Then her head jerked upwards and stared Sherlock in the face. He was smiling. Giggling like a child.

'I was teasing Mary,' he said, 'No need to sound so tremendously piteous.'

'You can't do that,' Mary gasped. She felt instantly relieved but infuriated by what the consulting detective had just said, 'Sherlock, you cannot joke about something so awful as cancer. You just can't. Say you are sorry, now.'

Mary felt another wave of astonishment flood her body as Sherlock said he was sorry. He didn't sound remotely like he meant it. Nevertheless, he apologised and Mary always felt excellent when she anchored the boys and kept them grounded.

'Yes, I have epilepsy,' Sherlock admitted.

Mary exhaled noisily, she was glad that Sherlock had finally confirmed what she had initially thought the problem might be.

More questions were rushing through her head and contaminating her normally composed thoughts. How long had he had epilepsy? Did he have seizures often? Medication? What medication was he taking if any at all? Sherlock abruptly answered her questions and she didn't even need to speak.

Sherlock started speaking softly while lying down. His noises we inaudible at first, he was clearly still exhausted from the seizure, 'Mary, I haven't had it for long. Most imbeciles presume that individuals with epilepsy develop the illness in their childhood or adolescence, it is a myth. I was away for two years being dead, but my brother was planning how to fake my death alongside me. A confidante, as you remember. He saw my first seizure. Automatically he presumed that I had relapsed on drugs and called an ambulance. They confirmed that I had not.'

'Mycroft knows?' Mary asked.

Sherlock sniggered, 'He _always_ knows.'

Mary nudged closer to Sherlock and sat down at the end of the sofa, trying to not sit on Sherlock's legs. 'Who else knows?'

'You.' He answered.

'Honestly, Mary Watson, I hadn't even finished my story. It was exceedingly interesting, if I may continue,' he said. 'They confirmed that I had no cocaine in my system and ran some tests, as they tend to do in hospitals. They kept me out after not even a night and I came back to 221b for the night. Everything was fine and then a week later, when John happened to be out on a date - with a young woman who was not worthy of him, unlike you, who is,' This made Mary grin. 'Then, I had another seizure. And a week later Mycroft came round with the medical file confirming that I had experienced late-onset epilepsy. It all happened swiftly on the private healthcare. Then I got some medication, died, went away and returned.'

'What medication?' Mary asked eagerly, without any delay in her question.

'Clonazepam,' Sherlock answered, 'However, I couldn't have healthcare when I was dead, would have appeared as moderately suspicious, considering the circumstances. It was under control, give or take a few seizures. Meds can stop being efficient though. In the last few months the seizures have been getting worse.'

Mary frowned. The worried expression on her face made Sherlock's insides turn. She though for a second about what to say, 'Heave you visited the doctor?'

'Boring! Takes up too much valuable time, I see no point in doing so.' Sherlock said. He was so innocently naïve. His health literally did not matter to him. It was unbelievably insignificant.

Mary moistened her lips, which she had chewed unconsciously during the events of the day. She looked up in disbelief, there was nowhere else she could think to look.

'You're disappointed?'

'No, well,' she pondered over what she would say. 'Yes. A little. Your health comes first, I'm sure John could help out if I ask him tonight he could come over tomorrow, or you could come to the heath cen-'

Sherlock interrupted Mary's train of thought, 'John cannot find out.'

'Why not, Sherlock? He could help, he needs to know.' Mary said soothingly.

'I do not want him to find out. He would try to care for me, he would decide that cases were unimportant in comparison to my health and then the work would be destroyed,' Sherlock trembled. He looked scared, genuinely scared. There was a glare in his eyes that did not resemble pain, sadness, shock or joy. The look resembled terror. His eyes were as blood-shot as a homeless man who had taken Class A drugs for years without help or rehabilitation. In a way this was Sherlock, he was indeed a man who had not received the assistance which he deserved.

'I won't tell him,' Mary promised, 'On one condition. You let me help out and you get help. You go to the doctors and renew the prescription. I swear it will not interfere with your work.'

'And if I do as you insist, you don't tell John?' Sherlock looked down and the fear in his blue, astounding eyes disappeared and they looked as empty and soulless as they ever did.

'A deal is a deal.' Mary grimaced as she accidentally drank the water that Sherlock had consumed with his breath which, frankly, smelt like vomit.

'Good. That sounds manageable,' Sherlock agreed, 'Now if you wouldn't mind leaving my flat. I am implausibly exhausted after the happenings of today and would not mind sleeping before I continue with an experiment to decide whether the tooth enamel can be tampered with after death thus changing the results and making a certain poison undetectable.'

'Fun,' Mary said as she grabbed her vivid red coat and shut the door to the upstairs flat.

Sherlock heard her muffled voice through the door telling him to call her if he needed any help. And with that she descended down the stairs and Sherlock heard each footstep get lower, like the scales of a Grade 1 music lesson. The door shut abruptly. Sherlock locked his eyes shut and relaxed under the thin fabric. Taking one drop of water into his system he placed the glass on the floor and drifted into a restful sleep.

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Hopefully I will update this again tomorrow, I am pretty good at updating regularly, but I have a lot of work and history revision so I cannot make any promises. It is looking like it might be quite a long fiction. I would appreciate some reviews, and I have a storyline planned but if you have any suggestions I would be interested!

Thank you for reading and, as always, keep being wonderful!

(Also, my tumblr is consultingat221b as well, so go follow that if you enjoy Sherlock)


	3. The Circus School Mystery

I have updated this everyday, I am proud of myself! Also I literally spent all this time thinking Mary was a receptionist! Thank you elfmaiden4legs for pointing that she isn't out, I don't pick up on things all that well, lets say my deduction skills sort of suck! I will either go back and correct it (which I still don't understand how to do) or, because this is a fic Mary can be a receptionist, right? Just for continuity, if I mention it again *laughs convincingly*

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The sound of a ring tone interrupted his sleep. He propped his back against the arm of the chair and stretched his arms above his head, yawing silently. Sherlock was like a little kid; as soon as he woke up he was up. No waiting around for the first birds to sing, he got up swiftly and answered the phone.

'Sherlock Holmes,' he stated, without checking the caller ID.

'Alright, Sherlock? Listen, it's Lestrade. There's been a suspicious death in a... circus school, Circus Space or something along those lines,' the words suspicious and death instantly caused Sherlock to beam. It didn't sound a particularly interesting case, and it was more than likely that a boring criminal was trying to be clever by composing a basic murder. Or it could be an accident. Now, _that_ would be tiresome. 'No signs of murder or injury, but… where the body was found, it's… weird. East London, Old Street. Will you come?'

'Of course I will.'

Lestrade uttered a thank you and efficiently ended the call. It happened so quickly, he was working in a demanding job as a DI; no doubt that he would be rushed.

Sherlock was about to place his phone in his pocket when he heard a snappy buzz and felt it vibrate. One text message. It was from Mary.

**How are you feeling?**

Sherlock rolled his eyes and the vague memories from yesterday came flooding back. Mary had been there, holding his hand tensely, as he woke up with a throbbing headache. She had listened to him. Now she was sending him texts. Evidently, she was concerned but it was not her priority because people more often than not call others when something is urgent. It was likely that she was rushing to get to work; John would be waiting in the car now that he had given up on the idea of cycling and they would head off to the health centre together.

**I'm fine, no need to ask. Delete these messages. –SH**

Her reply took a few minutes to come. Mary's replies normally came through instantly. Clearly, she was busy doing something.

**Sherlock, you promised to let me help you so why say that? I don't see any need to delete the message. We are hardly having an affair.!**

Her use of punctuation was infuriating. Sherlock decided that he would respond after taking a warm shower. Mary could wait. Lestrade could wait too.

The water was cold at first, so he stepped out and let it warm up. A chilled shower would probably wake him up but Sherlock saw no point in that, after feeling so drained from the events of yesterday he decided that he would allow himself to slow down and not rush. He felt guilty, relaxing was not a very _Sherlock_ thing to do.

He walked out of the shower, changed into some trousers and a tight-fitting shirt, went back to the bathroom, opened the cupboard secreted behind the mirror and decided that there was no point taking his medication. If he took any Clonazepam his mind would be at risk of being sluggish. Besides, it was hardly helping him.

He paused before he grabbed his phone, he didn't want to risk having another seizure in front of Lestrade. However, even now that he had episodes more regularly they were relatively contained and he had never experience more than three arduous seizures in a week. The balance of probability was that he wouldn't suffer an epileptic episode.

John and Mary would be working now. Sherlock picked up the phone and decided that he would reply to Mary's text.

**John could see the message. I am not any taking risks in him discovering what is wrong. I agreed to accept your help, but I would rather not do that through the medium of text. -SH**

He put his mobile into his pocket, promptly tightened his scarf and slid both arms into the sleeves of his coat. He walked down the stairs and let his hand glide along the wallpaper which had a moderately rough texture. When he shut the door to 221 he hailed a cab almost immediately and sat down, staring out of the window, waiting to disembark in Old Street.

He had another message from Mary.

**The phone is password protected, I am not telling John anything and you know that x**

The reassuring kiss aggravated Sherlock, and he realised that passwords were a very weak source of security. Only one person had ever come close to keeping a password a secret from him. She failed. Human error.

**Mary you seem the sort of person to use a word to unlock your phone, watsoncat07, perhaps seeing as you use that for your email and computer security. And if you do use a four digit number, which I highly don't suspect, I reckon you would use John's birth year. I suggest you delete the messages. He is not finding out anything. -SH**

**Fine, I'll do it later. Wait, what Sherlock?! I won't even ask how you know that. John heard from Greg. I hear there is a new case, that's great news ! He says he will come around when his shift is over**

**Greg? -SH**

**Never mind. John will be over later. Stay safe.**

Sherlock felt no need to respond to that.

He watched as the large white houses transformed into tall, murky blocks of flats when the cab entered the more dodgy side of London. There was graffiti on the brick walls and smashed windows in the convenience stores. The cab pulled in and Sherlock stepped onto the pavement. He had to walk through the gloomy street before he got to the building.

He travelled towards the door. 'Freak's arrived.'

Then, the automatic doors whooshed open, allowing him through effortlessly. He walked past the vacant reception and into a room where paramedics and the forensics team seemed to be rushing in and out off. Trapezes, hoops, tightropes, poles and a body of a teenage girl were found here.

'Sherlock, you okay?' John started speaking and on noticing the pole that had been feebly fitted into the middle of the Baker Street living room, he furrowed his eyebrows and asked teasingly, 'You taking up exotic dancing or something?'

'It is for a case, John. And pole dancing is not only a form of inappropriate dancing, It requires a lot of strength and training and can be a form of art and expressive dance.'

'I gather.' He hesitated and stared at the pole in disbelief, 'Erm, how do you plan on using it for the case?'

'Just mapping out everything. The body had no obvious signs of murder. More can be revealed in the post-mortem, I guess. 'll talk to Molly tomorrow. I could not see that she had contact with anyone, she was in the room without an instructor, which is against the rules, and then her body was found wrapped around the lower part of the pole.' He gestured to the place where the body would be found and handed John a disturbing photo of a girl knotted around the pole, she didn't look dead. It was alarming to know that she was, 'Someone doesn't just die pole dancing, without a reason, and their body cannot stay in such a complicated position. It was a fascinating puzzle and I think I will have gotten quite a goof understanding the _how_ tonight, but I have no clue whatsoever _why_ anyone would do this. It was a brilliant gift, since I have been so bored.'

John sniggered; Sherlock Holmes considered a girl's lifeless body a gift. Lovely. He hadn't witnessed this behaviour in a while; he actually had not seen Sherlock in a while. He was getting more and more reclusive as the days went by.

'Why would anyone do that? I mean it sounds deliberate, from what I hear. It makes no sense. Why would someone bother leaving a body like that? I don't know, maybe it is some sort of message?' John had a sense of doubt in his voice.

Sherlock began shaking his head and then paused. He blinked a few times before speaking, 'John, you are a genius!' Sherlock temporary halted again, 'Actually you are far from that, you are slightly slow-witted and you managed to get that far purely by a lazy coincidence, but you still gave me an excellent place to start.'

'I don't understand.'

'Try to.'

Sherlock reached down to snatch a pen and wrote something on a piece of paper, which he then pinned to the wall and attached a bit of string to link the evidence together.

'John, forget what I said. I think I will continue to work on the _why_ tonight,' Sherlock blinked and focussed on the ground.

'Do you mean it is a message? What does it mean? Who is it from? Why would they go to th-'

'Please don't bombard me with questions, I already have most of the answers,' Sherlock exhaled and seemed slightly unfocused.

'Please,' John began, 'Enlighten me; I would prefer that to the showing off. Remember what we talked about?'

Sherlock put down the pen which he had been absent-mindedly fiddling with for a couple of minutes. He walked into the kitchen and pretended to look through the tea cupboard.

'Sherlock! Don't just ignore me.'

Sherlock turned unexpectedly to face his friend, 'Moriarty. It's Moriarty who is behind this.'

John looked shocked, 'Seriously,' he laughed, 'Isn't this a bit mundane for him?'

'That's what is worrying,' he looked confused, 'I can tell it is him. It was planned, very planned out. A lot of planning-'

'Planning! You've said that enough. You okay?'

Sherlock turned to face the kitchen again. He glared at the tiles on the wall.

'I'm fine.' He swallowed, 'No, John, it is too well planned and has been done carefully, arranged by James Moriarty and carried out by someone else, remember he doesn't do direct contact. That isn't the way he _dances_.'

Sherlock halted again, he understood the message. It wasn't clear at first because it wasn't meant to be obvious. He was meant to struggle in working in out. Somehow, Moriarty had worked out what Sherlock had gone through. The pole was symbolic of a finger, and the body resembled Sherlock during a seizure. He had been tangled into a position and was weak; he was also wrapped around Moriarty's 'finger.' The dance continued, but Sherlock was now a dancing puppet. Somehow, Moriarty knew what was happening to Sherlock. And he could use this to... control him. He had somehow discovered that he was suffering from epilepsy and in that moment Sherlock realised that he had underestimated Moriarty. He had not been committing crimes for the game, he was sending Sherlock messages. It was guaranteed that there were more to come.

'What does it mean then? It makes no sense, the message, what is it?'

I don't know,' Sherlock lied.

John looked confused and began to purse his lips. He seemed completely dumbfounded.

'Now, I'm very busy, John and I reckon you should get back to Mary. It's getting late.' It was only seven O'clock, 'I have some…' he thought for a moment. 'I have some decoding to do. Now,' he said while opening a window and gesturing through it, '_Out you go_.'

John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and smiled questioningly. He had done this countless times during their conversation, Sherlock's behaviour did seem erratic, 'Sherlock,' he gulped, looking bewildered, 'Window is lovely, but, I would rather take the stairs. See you.'

Sherlock watched John leave the flat and stared at his hand as he realised that he had just, involuntarily, casually asked his friend to jump out of the window. He sighed; John was going to notice that something was wrong. That wasn't his priority now. He decided that he needed to look into the case. It seemed promising that Moriarty had a plan, an ingenious plan, and it was likely that he would send more messages through crimes, like he had done before their first encounter. Sherlock would have to get ahead of the game.

Then it took Sherlock a moment to realise what he had to do, he wanted John's help on this case. John was not the cleverest of people but his company was brilliant and he seemed to keep Sherlock right. He might have to tell John everything. But, there was another way to weave out of that possible situation.

He picked up his phone and snappily dialled a number.

'Hello,' he greeted the voicemail's beep dryly, 'I need your help. Could you please text me back.'

He moved the phone away from his ear and was about to press the button to end the call, and then he remembered what else he was going to say, 'Oh, and since you will be texting me I think it is best if you change your password, Mary, I am pretty sure John knows it, it was clear from his confident body position despite his wife receiving co-.' The 30 second time limit for his message ended unexpectedly.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed that, it was shorter than the earlier ones but I have a tonne of revision and homework to do! Leave reviews if you wish. Thank you as well. x


	4. Suspicious Messages

I have enjoyed writing this (and will continue to) and I have plans on where it is going to go. Reviews are always appreciated, thank you all for reading :)

* * *

John was striding down the stairs of the underground station at Baker Street. He only used the underground if there was no one to travel with and he wasn't in any particular rush. That's when he heard it. The notification sound was followed by a small vibration. The noise was a fast beep that echoed, leaving a resonance behind. John knew very well that it was not his phone; he left his on silent and in the large pocket of his trousers. This reverberation was coming from the rucksack he had carried; inside he had a few leaflets, notes, a spare shirt and a comfortable, wool jumper.

John wandered over to a wall that wasn't surrounded by crowds reading maps, he paused to gaze at tourists and commuters insert their tickets into the machinery and scan their oyster cards hastily. The all looked so busy and stressed, so John felt slightly awkward resting in the entrance to the station.

He tugged on the zip and the bag opened. It took him a moment to find the source of the sound, but eventually he found that it was coming from between his folded, stripey jumper. It was a white HTC. John was confused for a moment before he remembered that Mary had that exact phone, he pressed the unlock key and observed that the wallpaper was a photograph of John and Mary on their wedding day.

John wondered how it had gotten into the bag for a moment and he remembered that the staff in the health centre left their possessions in a cloakroom, Mary must have left her phone in John's bag, forgetting that he was going to see Sherlock after work, without her. It made sense, staff were supposed to be professional in the working environment and it seemed amateurish to have a phone on the desk, whether you are a doctor, nurse, receptionist or working on the pharmacy till. It was wrong and unprofessional.

There was a lock screen that required a four digit figure to open it. John figured that Mary probably would not want to neglect a call. Even if it was not John's business, she was his gorgeous wife and it seemed best to check the message, if he could get on her phone. He didn't know the pass code, but he recalled that Mary often used dates of birth as pin numbers and passwords. John smiled slightly, he felt very clever that he remembered this; it was like Sherlock was by his side whispering to him all about how to hack into phones and guess a person pin number. He would make rude remarks about how boringly simple people were, and would work it out relatively fast.

He moistened his lips and thought for a small while. Then he entered the year of his wife's birth. No luck.

He was about to give up after one attempt, deposit the phone in the bag and catch a train. Then he was fixed on the idea that he would try a few more codes. It took him a moment to realise that Mary thought of him as her best friend and they were genuinely married, so he entered the numbers one and nine and then took a moment to breathe, he felt as if entering the year of his birth was a little selfish, presuming that Mary would use it as a pass code was a little unfair. He also thought that Mary may be vaguely annoyed that he had hacked into her phone. He was only trying to help.

So, he tapped the last two numbers on the keys, this made the year of his birth, and the widgets appeared on the screen as it unlocked.

There was a notification saying that a call had been missed, and a voicemail was left.

'Oh,' John uttered under his breath as he looked at the caller ID and saw Sherlock's name and number. He pressed a button and heard a deep baritone voice speak to the phone.

'_Hello_,' Sherlock's voice stated, with no enthusiasm. _'I need your help. Could you please text me back_,' he sounded moderately… distressed, John thought silently to himself. _'Oh, and since you will be texting me I think it is best if you change your password, Mary, I am pretty sure John knows it_,' John laughed in awe for a moment, it seemed to him like Sherlock had predicted him knowing Sherlock's password.

Then, he blinked many times, he couldn't think straight because something had shocked him. He didn't quite know what it was that had made him freeze on the spot. He shivered tensely as he realised that Sherlock did not quite seem his usual self earlier.

He checked the texts Sherlock had sent to Mary. She was offering to help him with something that John mustn't know about. The texts just made Sherlock's behaviour seem even more suspicious.

Was he keeping something from him? John felt sick all of a sudden. From what he could remember, Sherlock only ever kept secrets for a few reasons. He was either trying to solve a crime, protecting someone close to him or there was something wrong. Perhaps he was on drugs again, John worried to himself, making himself feel ill with concern.

John sighed and decided that he should go back to 221B, but first he placed Mary's phone into the bag and made a quick phone call. He decided that Lestrade was probably the best person to call. If Sherlock was taking drugs, as John had presumed, Greg was probably the best figure to put him under control, he might have a case or something to say that would convince Sherlock to do stop. John could never empathise with the complexity of recovering from a drug addiction... He phoned Mycroft the last time, and that went down like a sinking ship. Sherlock would not be happy with Mycroft intervening, so Greg was his best option.

'Detective Inspector Lestrade,' the raspy, London accent answered John's call.

'Hi, Greg. Listen, I think something is wrong with Sherlock. He was acting very strange earlier and he left Mary an unusual voicemail and none of it adds up and I don't know what to do and I know everything is probably fine I just got a bit… worried. It literally just hit me that he could… he could be on drugs, I noticed that he acts odd when craving or when exiting a high. _Please_, can you meet me outside the underground station at Baker Street?'

'Oh, God… John, I will be there right away. Don't worry. Wait ten minutes okay? Crap.'

John leaned against the wall and placed his hand to his head, attempting to calm himself down.

* * *

'John! ' Lestrade shouted, 'Sorry I took that long.' He was out of breath.

'It's fine. I'm the one that should be apologising. I don't want to have to talk to him alone this time, we would only argue. I just panicked when I heard the voicemail, probably for no reason. '

'So did I when I reieved your call. I came as fast as I could. That is sort of the reason I am panting.'

John broke eye contact first. He faltered for a moment and glared at the busy London traffic drive down the street, hearing car horns and sirens he exhaled. He was hesitant to speak.

'So,' Lestrade awkwardly interrupted John's vacant train of thought, 'Let's get this over with, yeah?'

'Yeah,' John replied.

They crossed the road and rushed towards the pale buildings, heading for the one wih the golden number 221 on the door. John reached into his pocket and grabbed a key.

None of them said anything, they felt odd intruding on Sherlock, it was wrong, but he had acted suspicious and John was more concerned than he would normally be by his erratic behaviour.

When they entered the warmth of the flat John handed his key over to Lestrade and after he tapped Lestrade on the shoulder signalling to his coat Lestrade slipped it off, handed it to John and began to make his way upstairs. John took a small moment to gather his cluttered composure before he could make his way upstairs.

He breathed in slowly, inhaling the warm, inviting air into his lungs. He closed his eyes and thought about how he would explain this to Sherlock, how he heard the message and was worried. He would be fuming. Before he could exhale his thoughts were interrupted by Lestrade shouting deafeningly loudly, 'Bloody hell. John, phone an ambulance! Get up here now. Help!' His eyes widened and he jolted his head. In that moment he was petrified. He managed to hear a muffled voice, it seemed like Lestrade was quietly saying something. John was too alarmed to make out what he was saying, 'John! Help me out. Get up here, _now_!'John bolted up the staircase faster that a stroke of lightning...


	5. 999

Sorry I didn't update this story yesterday, I had an article to write about technology and Tumblr and yeah, my attempts at being funny include writing about phones that need parachutes so they don't smash, so that was worth it! It really wasn't… Also, thank you so, so, so much for all the lovely reviews, they have been really helpful and I know I was told not to worry about the mistake I made with Mary being a nurse and not a receptionist, but I really am sorry! I had to get that off of my chest.

As usual, I own nothing.

Also, I felt so evil leaving you on a cliff-hanger, I am so cruel. *evil cackle*I just hope you enjoy this one, well I say enjoy… it is my priority to give you feels… maybe they will be happier feels this time, just maybe!

* * *

'Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?' John heard Lestrade's voice utter softly through the thin walls of the Baker Street flat.

John blundered on the final ascending step; this caused him to hesitate before he shoved the door open. He stood frozen on the spot for a short moment, until his army doctor instincts came flooding back.

He saw Sherlock's body sprawled on the floor, motionless. A crimson flow of blood was trickling from his head, which he seemed to have whacked on the metal pole erected in the centre of the room.

'Dear, God.' He uttered while rushing over to Sherlock, he tried to remain as calm as possible, but that was difficult when his friend had managed to bludgeon himself on a pole. 'Greg, take my phone. You need to call the ambulance, I'm the doctor, and I know what to do. Just… please, my phone is,' he reached into his pocket and lobbed his expensive phone across the room, he couldn't care a less if his phone shattered; Sherlock was the most important thing now.

He reached a hand down to clasp Sherlock's wrist and take his pulse. Which Lestrade had not thought to do because he was too busy trying to bring Sherlock back to consciousness. He took a moment to find it because he was in such a rush to make sure his best friend was okay. Anticipating the worst, he held two fingers over Sherlock's thin, frail wrists and got something he was completely not expecting. His pulse was high-speed, and tough like a hammer was beating inside his skin.

'John, is he okay?' Lestrade asked cautiously, after phoning 999 for the ambulance service.

'Err,' John quaked, 'He has a pulse and it is strong, but faster than it normally would be. I think he would be fine if it was not for this _damn pole_. How did he manage to hit his head this low down anyway? Christ, Sherlock.'

'Can I do anything? Like, move him?'

John was opening the lids of Sherlock's deep blue eyes, and noticed that his pupils were of uneven sizes. Then, it registered in his mind what Lestrade had just said and he twisted his head to look him in the eye.

'_You being serious?_ We can't _move_ him, we don't have a gurney and I'm not risking making anything worse in case he has any spinal injuries. Just grab a clean cloth from the kitchen. I can apply some pressure and try to stop the blood. I could do more! I could do something; I could do something to help if only he had some blasted medical equipment, and not all these microscopes and Petri dishes and skulls, in this damn house!'

'John, shouting won't help. We'll just have to wait.'

'It would be easier to wait if I knew how he managed to get himself in this mess.'

Lestrade passed John the cloth, which would not be sheen white for longer, and he placed it, carefully and firmly, on Sherlock's injured head.

'Well he hit his head pretty low down; he must have been on the floor doing… something…'

'Well, he… maybe he… maybe. I'm his friend, how can _I_ not kno-' John was cut off when he noticed that Sherlock had begun moving, he wasn't getting up though.

'Shit.' John cursed.

Sherlock arm had started shaking violently and soon his whole body was jerking around. It happened so suddenly, John barely managed to fiddle with the dodgy zip on his bag again and open it to grab a soft jumper to place under his head on time. It wouldn't cushion his head properly, so he grabbed the union jack pillow off of the sofa and used that, which worked better to lessen the impact on the floor. He also managed to move Sherlock slightly over, just away from the pole, even though he knew it could be dangerous to his friend.

'John, can't you do something? Stop it. Just, stop him.'

'Oh, Greg. I really wish I could. We just have to wait and make sure he doesn't cause himself any more damage.'

Lestrade was a good friend of John's, but he could be dim at times, despite being an excellent detective for Scotland Yard . He just made it tougher for John's concentration. He was struggling to watch his friend have a seizure, he had seen many before but this was the only one to ever shock him. He kept asking himself: _why?_

'Greg, do you know why? I mean head trauma can cause seizures, so that would make sense. But it looks like he might have had another one before this, maybe that's why there is blood on the lower part of the bar? Christ, do you think he's relapsed? Drugs can cause seizures, so…'

'I don't know, John,' he mumbled while staring at Sherlock's body shake on the carpet of 221B, 'Where the fuck is that ambulance?' He screamed impatiently.

He spoke of the devil and then a humming sound became a piercing, loud siren sound just outside the door. Lestrade sprinted down the stairs as he remembered that John had shut it and the ambulance did not have keys to enter the flat. John stayed next to Sherlock as his seizure continued. Praying that it would end soon because seizures longer than four minutes really were horrific, and Sherlock's had been going on for over three minutes and John presumed that he must have had one beforehand, that was why he hit his head.

He heard the paramedics' footsteps run up the wooden staircase, they couldn't carry themselves any faster, John thought, but he wished that they could. He stood on his feet and stepped around Sherlock's quaking body, it had calmed down a little but the seizure was not over.

The paramedics had to wait before it had calmed down and Sherlock's body was placed on the gurney. John hated watching this but he knew that they were professionals and he trusted what they were doing. He followed them down the stairs and heard footsteps by his side and down a bit.

'What's with the racket?' Mrs Hudson asked timidly.

'I can't stay, Mrs Hudson. There's and ambulance outside… for Sherlock. I'm going with him. Greg! Can you just explain everything to Mrs Hudson; I need to go! I can't keep them waiting any longer...'

Lestrade nodded and John took this as permission to flee 221B and rush over the rusty, concrete tiles that paved the floor of Baker Street. He soon found himself in an ambulance next to Sherlock, who was thankfully doing okay. He felt his heart quiet down a little. For the past ten minutes it had beaten with great force. He felt tired and tried to test his instincts and calm down, but he felt guilty, he could not stop his constant worrying for Sherlock. Sherlock did have that effect on people.

The white clean floors of the hospital were blindingly bright. The chemical smells of cleaning products were grim, but they ensured John that this was a safe place. This place was run by the NHS, which Mycroft would not approve of, but John knew that medical staff who worked on the NHS were perfectly high-quality. After all, he was a doctor who worked on the NHS himself.

Sherlock was taken into a room, and John was asked to stay outside. He was not content with this decision, because he would rather witness exactly what was happening to Sherlock. So he took the weight off his feet, nervously, in the waiting room until a female member of staff in a pasty blue dress walked into the room.

'John Watson?'

'Yeah, that's me.'

He walked towards a room where staff were known for breaking bad news, again, all John could do was close his eyes tightly and pray to God that Sherlock would be okay.

'He's alright, yeah?' John said hopefully.

'Yes. He is okay, erm; he hurt his head pretty bad. There's no damage to how his brain, we just need him to get some stitches and we will need to keep him in for a couple of nights.'

'I don't know if the paramedics did anything about it. I mean, I'm a doctor, but I couldn't do anything in that situation, if you understand. I just… He has a history of substance abuse and I was wondering if this could have caused…. If you got any results from a blood test suggesting he has been using?'

'No, no, Dr Watson. This wasn't drugs. This was, clearly, caused by his epilepsy.' The nurse stated.

John didn't quite know where to place his eyes and smiled awkwardly, 'Sorry, What?' He continued to smile politely, 'Erm, I think you might have gotten the wrong person.'

'Mr Holmes? William Sherlock Scott Holmes? He goes by sherlock?' She replied whilst shrugging her shoulders questioingly.

'Yeah, that's him.'

She looked into John's eyes questioningly, 'No, it was definitely the epilepsy.'

'What epilepsy?'

'Oh, God.' The woman gasped, 'I assumed you knew, seeing as you came along and your a doctor and his reco-' Her voice was mousy and nervous as she realised that she had disclosed confidential information, but she thought that it was excusable due to the condition of the patient.

John sighed and attempted to say something, but no words escaped his sternly clenched jaw. Finally, he asked the nurse, 'so… you're meaning to say that Sherlock… Sherlock Holmes is an epileptic?'

She nodded and then a few more words were exchanged, but it was all very uncomfortable because John was taken aback by this information.

He was angry. Sherlock Holmes had kept a secret from John, a secret that everyone should know about to help the man. How could someone so immensely intelligent be so naïve?

Suddenly, it clicked in John's mind what the texts sent to Mary meant. _'You promised to let me help you… I am not telling John anything.'_ Plus, Sherlock's suspicious voicemail. It all made absolute sense now. His mouth unbolted and showed a wide expression of shock. Mary Watson, his wife, knew. Somehow it didn't surprise him that she would keep this a secret. He was not mad at her. He was just so confused.

So he got his phone out of his bag, and went to his relatively small list of contacts, including some friends and colleagues, and dialled Mary's phone.

He felt an ominous buzzing in his rucksack, then he remembered that he still had Mary's mobile. So, she would have found it difficult to contact him. So, he touched the delicate, touch-sensitive screen and dialled his home number, praying that Mary would be at home.

'John.' She answered immediately, she sounded carefree and happy, 'I've lost my phone and I could have called on the home one… I didn't want to disturb you and Sherlock. Are you alright?'

'I have your phone, I took the rucksack, forgot you might have put you phone away. Yes, I'm fine. Of course I'm fine, Mary.'

'Great,' she muttered.

'It's not _great_ though Mary. I,' he wondered how he would excuse himself for hacking on to her phone, 'you got a voicemail and I was concerned that it might be important, so I… I guessed your password…'

'I have a few passwords.'

'Yeah, this one was my birth date… not watsoncat07, or whatever it was.'

'Sherlock told you that?'

'Nope,' he snapped, 'I guessed, as he presumed I would, like in his text messages to you.'

John could hear a sigh faintly in his ear, 'It was nothing bad-'

'I know. He left a voicemail asking for help, I worried because he was being all weird when I spoke to him. So I called Lestrade and we headed back to Baker Street to find the sod lying by a… pole dancing pole that he installed earlier. Don't ask. His head was smashed in Mary, his head smashed in. We called an ambulance, and he had a seizure. A seizure. He's okay but I just found out he has epilepsy, and you knew I guess? Why did no one think I might actually need to know about this?'

'John, I _promised_ him I wouldn't tell you. Don't be angry. I'm sorry,' she said apologetically.

'I'm not angry at you; you were being kind, and keeping promises. I just _wish_ he would have told me. I think I will be able to see him soon. You can come if you want?'

There was a pause as Mary contemplated her decisions. John looked around at the people in the waiting room and thought that they were possibly suffering like him or Sherlock, having secrets kept from them and experiencing illnesses. Many thoughts crossed his mind in those ten seconds before Mary replied.

'Of course, I'll be there as soon as I can. Goodbye, John.' John paused on hearing those words; they had scarred him so much once.

'See you soon,' he said the words like it were his last chance, 'I love you.' Then the phone went silent.

Silence - a nice sound. The past hour had been full of commotion. Rushing, worrying and screaming to try and make sure the situation did not get out of hand. Hopefully, everything would be okay.

In his peripheral vision John saw the mousey nurse from earlier approach him vigilantly, 'Mr… Sorry, _Dr_ Watson, please come this way, you can see Sherlock now, and he's awake.'

* * *

John exhaled in relief as he saw his friend sat upright in a hospital bed. He looked slightly dazed; he had probably had a generous dose of morphine. John instinctively wanted to question him about why he was keeping his epilepsy a secret, but he didn't want to cause him any stress in a hospital bed. Sherlock was expected to stay in for a couple of arduous nights, he didn't want him to clamber out of the window into the streets of London.

He carefully approached Sherlock, who had obviously noticed him, but was pretending not to.

John sighed and Sherlock twisted his head slowly and painfully until they made eye contact, John raised his eyebrows before he spoke, 'I should have said before, I think pole dancing was a _really_ bad hobby for you.'

And Sherlock grinned, that crinkly Sherlock grin.


	6. I'm Coming Home

I'm really sorry for being slow at updating. I know I managed quite well, but I feel like I let you down. I had loads of coursework and revision and ugh _stress_! I'm back now. This is going to be a relatively short chapter, considering most of them have been over 2000 words, I thought I would let myself relax a little.

* * *

Sherlock had stayed in the hospital for two short nights. Although, he was constantly complaining about how tedious and repetitive the daily routine was. During this time he was monitored by the staff and had suffered a few seizures. Based on the analysis a doctor prescribed him a few new medicines to take on top of his original were a lot of prescribed drugs in Sherlock's system, it was mildly worrying, but he seemed to be managing okay.

John sat by him in the taxi on the journey back to Baker Street. John had brought some of Sherlock's requested possessions to the hospital, and now he was carrying them. He had not been asked to by Sherlock, but he felt like he had to.

Neither of them uttered a word.

Sherlock glared out of the window and watched the busy London commuters rush around the city. The trees that lined the edge of the road were wide oaks and they shadowed the dark, CO2 filled air with greenery and colour. The busy roads and hustle of London became clear when the cab pulled in to Baker Street; people were flooding into the station and tourists were looking at maps trying to find the closest landmarks and attractions.

The Sherlock opened the door quickly and grabbed the key from his pocket before heading to the black door. He left John alone to pay the obnoxiously large fee.

John handed a wad of notes to the taxi driver and he cautiously followed Sherlock inside the building, up the stairs and into his best friends flat.

He still didn't speak. Sherlock did not seem as angry as John would have presumed; he had smiled when he saw him in the hospital. John thought that now was as good a chance as any that he would have to speak to Sherlock about the major issue. His illness.

'So,' Sherlock started, 'What was it you wanted to say?'

'I never said I wanted to say anything.'

'You were thinking it. Get it over.'

John paused for a moment and smiled weakly before nodding subtly in agreement.

He took a step towards Sherlock and stopped to contemplate what he was going to say, but before he got a chance to think about what he would say he found his arms wrapped weakly around Sherlock's torso and his hands were placed firmly on his back before he patted him lightly.

'Mary told me everything,' John started. Sherlock had frozen solid, he didn't seem to know what to do and the hug had confused him, this was probably why John didn't hug him regularly, 'Pease, just don't be angry. She sort of… had to… under the circumsta-'

'Are we… _cuddling_?' John couldn't help but stifle a giggle at Sherlock's naïve choice of words.

'Honestly, I am trying to speak to you, you know I find this stuff a little touchy and I think you must find it tough,' he stopped speaking when he felt Sherlock, the man who couldn't sit still without wiggling his toes and fingers and hopping manically to his feet, was completely frozen. He was dazed. 'Yes, I suppose, we are.'

'Why?'

'Because you're my friend and that's what friends are supposed to do, although cuddle does make us sound a bit like a couple… let's stick with the term hug. Cuddle is for Mar-' John was cut off when he felt Sherlock loosen up and raise his arms to return the hug. He had not expected that from Sherlock Holmes, the so-called high functioning sociopath. 'Yeah, Sherlock. We're... cuddling.'

When John realised that their embrace had lasted for longer than he had intended, he detached his arms from Sherlock's back and took a step back. Sherlock sat down in his chair. John decided to sit in his, although it was a little unfamiliar from the lack of time he had spent in this flat recently.

'Yeah, like I said. Mary told me about-'

'The epilepsy?' Sherlock interrupted.

John sighed, 'Yeah, that. She had to.'

'I know.'

John glanced at Sherlock when he realised that he had not made much eye contact with him.

'Listen,' John exhaled quietly, 'I am a doctor. _I could have helped_. I know Mary was able to for a bit, but I don't get why it was such a big secret. I wouldn't mind. I have treated,' he paused to correct himself, 'helped, I mean, people with epilepsy before. It wouldn't be a big deal.'

Sherlock mumbled something undetectable.

John furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head while attempting to understand Sherlock's inaudible words. He couldn't understand.

'Sorry, what was that? The mumbling is sort of hard to understand, I could probably make some sense if you actually spoke,' John said bluntly, but with a humorous touch of sarcasm.

'You would give up. You would want me to stop solving crimes and you would worry. Understandably so, you are a doctor, they teach you all that pretentious waffle about concern for your patients.'

'I would never stop you from solving crimes. Come on, you are getting _slow_ if you think I would do that!' John said jokingly.

'_I am_,' Sherlock mumbled, 'I am getting extremely slow. It's the blasted medication. I can't carry on without it but it is stopping the work. _I detest it_.'

John flinched, it hurt him. Sherlock not being able to work was the most distressing image his mind could imagine.

'Listen to me. That is not going to happen. Never. You are Sherlock bloody Holmes, for crying out loud! If you think for a moment you are going to stop being bloody brilliant then you are deluded or-'

'Where's my pole?'

John stared into Sherlock's glistening eyes as he realised that he wasn't joking. Sherlock had only just noticed that the pole, which had injured him to the extent that he needed stitches and two nights in hospital, had actually disappeared. How had he not noticed? Was he getting slow?

'Oh Christ, Sherlock…' John closed his eyes. 'Greg took it down when you were in hospital.'

'Oh right, well I guess _he_ would.' John shut his eyes even tighter. Sherlock really was not himself since his return from the hospital. He had actually remembered who Greg was for the first time in forever.

'I wouldn't prevent you solving crimes. That would be the most ridiculous thing,' John thought for a moment, he wondered if Sherlock had gotten any further in the case he said was concerning Moriarty. 'Hey, Sherlock. You know that case that you said _Moriarty_ was involved in? Did you get any further with that business?'

'I assume I can tell you now. It was a message. A message directed to me. He knows about the epilepsy. Don't ask me how, I don't know and you know how much I detest not knowing. But, it was a threat. It is not a serious one yet though. It is simply an opening act to his latest dance.'

John positioned his head in his hands and tugged on his short, military hair, '_Christ…_' He murmured.

John pursed his lips. He had a conversation with Mary last night, he had thought her suggestions were unnecessary at first, but now he was starting to contemplate her ideas. Sherlock was struggling with his illness and he wasn't safe.

'Listen, Sherlock,' John began, 'Me and Mary are going to move into Baker Street.'

'John, I don't think that will be necessary. '

'Oh, _it is_. The great Sherlock Holmes is being threatened and we know how Moriarty's little dances can pan out,' John stared Sherlock in the eyes; he was not asking a question anymore, he was ordering him, 'Mary and I need to keep you safe. There's Mrs Hudson, of course, but I imagine we are more capable. I am sorry. I know you don't want this and you probably think we are trying to stop you from solving crimes, but we really need to keep you safe.'

'You will not prohibit me from doing my work, though?'

'I would under no circumstances do that. What's a consulting detective without a crime to solve?'


	7. Why Him?

Hello to you, my chums. Long time, no see! Finally I have returned and I am burdened with glorious update :) I was doing very well at updating almost daily, I have no excuse for the lack of updates… just know that I am so, so , so, so, so, so sorry!

Anyways... enjoy, and please leave a review. I'm not amazingly proud of this chapter but I have some very interesting plans for this story...

It was three in the morning and Sherlock sat upright in his bed, squinting his eyes to focus on the frames that were attached to the wall. A strange orange light illuminated the frames; it was not daylight, but it was enough to brighten his room. He was deprived of sleep for an extremely long time. This used to result in him staying up for ridiculously long hours experimenting on human body parts, or solving a case. However, the colorful pills that Sherlock swallowed during the day left him constantly feeling drowsy, but he was unable to sleep.

He reclined his body on to the rigid mattress. Sherlock's tall body twisted and coiled like a snake that could not control it's slithery actions. It was a Saturday morning and Sherlock was drifting in a state that was not sleep, but it was not fully controllable consciousness. The state he was in often resulted in him being startled by the fearful feeling of falling that most people experience when drifting off to sleep on occasions. That was the state of dreaming and drowsiness which Sherlock experienced. He never really slept. He just lay there thinking, fantasizing about solving a first-rate homicide, which with any luck, Moriarty would organize sooner of later.

Six hours of monotonous "sleep" had passed before Sherlock heard a shuffling sound. It was almost nine o'clock on a Saturday morning and either John or Mary had woken up. There was not enough noise for it to be them both, but there was sound, and more than the usual hushed shifting of John's PTSD induced nightmares.

Foot steps could be heard vaguely closer to the left above Sherlock. Sherlock decided that due to the general way she bounced around John that Mary laid on the left side of the bed. Mary was awake.

Sherlock groaned and stretched his limbs behind his back. His back felt stiff. Lying on a rigid bed for hours each with a bruised body was not the best combination. The sofa seemed a better place to lie.

Sherlock moved his mouth around. It was the morning and despite not sleeping he still hadn't been doing much all night, so he moistened his dry, dehydrated mouth and ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. It was bumpy. He had either chomped it during his last seizure in hospital or, due to how tediously boring lying down and doing nothing was, he might have chewed at his own flesh while hoping the boredom would pass.

He felt it hard to move his heavy body from the king sized bed. His vision was slightly blurred and the heating had been left on all night. Thankfully so, as waking up to a chill so unbearable that moving from the duvet cocoon was a difficult challenge was never the beginning of a satisfactory morning. However, waking up to the gross reek of sweat was not something Sherlock enjoyed. Mary and John liked the heat on though, and the effort it took to tell them to turn the temperature down was excessive; he decided that he would let them enjoy lying next to one another with their stinking bodies. As long as he did not have to get involved, he was fine.

It was definitely time for a shower.

Sherlock's naked foot stepped on the cold floor of the kitchen. He retreated from the instant chill and grabbed the sleeves of his burgundy, silk dressing gown attempting to warm himself up.

'Maybe you should have worn those fluffy socks that Mrs Hudson bought you last Christmas!'

Sherlock grimaced and shook his head determinedly to confirm that he detested the idea, 'Morning, Mary.'

She giggled and grabbed the kettle, rotating it slightly and pouring tea into a cup, 'Sleep well?'

'As ever,' Sherlock lied, 'Mrs Hudson does the tea in the morning.'

Mary moistened her lips while concentrating on not dropping the fine, bone china mug with the British Isles illustrated on the fragile, white surface, 'Yeah, well it's a Saturday and I am happy to make you a cuppa... Let's give Mrs Hudson a day off,' she smiled and ambled over to the table in front of Sherlock's chair. She placed the cup on the table and prompted herself on the arm of John's chair, gesturing for Sherlock to sit on his armchair with one hand and smiling, welcoming _him_ in to _his_ own flat.

'Thank you,' Sherlock accepted the drink and parked himself comfortably on his chair. He sipped the scorching drink and stifled a thankful smile towards Mary. She couldn't make tea as fine as Mrs Hudson's.

Mary looked around the room while pursing her lips. Subconsciously, she had bobbed her head up and down. Sherlock had noticed. Clearly, she was trying to think of how to broach a topic. She decided that she might as well be up front.

'Medication? Have you, erm, taken it?'

Sherlock blinked a few times and did not respond to Mary. Evidently, he had not taken his prescribed pills. Mary exhaled noisily, and walked over to a cupboard in the kitchen, grabbed a few card boxes of different meds, poured a glass of cool water, sat back on the arm of John's chair, slammed the glass down and glared at Sherlock.

'You can't just not take it, Sherlock.'

'They slow me down.'

'They reduce the risk of killing yourself from a seizure!' Mary said bluntly, she looked at Sherlock's long, oval face. His eyebrows were raised. He seemed offended, '_Sorry_,' she added apologetically.

'Let me finish my… _deliciously, hot_ tea first. Then I'll take the unnecessary pills.'

Mary nodded in response. She realised that watching Sherlock swallow his tea and take his pills might be slightly unnerving, so she told him that she was going to check on John, and then left Sherlock on his own.

Sherlock waited until he was 100% positive that Mary would not be returning, then he walked over to the window, opened it, quickly checked that there were none unsuspecting commuters or customers walking below, decided that the tables would not be set out this early in the morning and poured the drink aggressively on the concrete tiled pavement, dodging the red canopy for Speedy's sandwich bar and café narrowly.

He then went to sort his pills out, but then he noticed that Mary had set out the correct dose and amount without him noticing. And he swallowed them dryly.

He heard some more footsteps. Not two feet, this time, but four. John was awake.

'You know, John… Mary has already married you, you hardly need to attempt to impress her by using way too much of that aftershave… it really doesn't do any wonders for you. Actually, I think I might be choking.'

'Ah, it's charming. It is _always_ nice to be greeted by an obnoxious sod. _Good morning_ to you to,' John said, his voice tainted with sarcasm, 'it is _great_ being back! I feel _so welcome_...'

Mary giggled, 'I always feel bad saying the stuff this genius blurts out,' she gestured jokingly towards Sherlock, 'but it would definitely save you money if you didn't use so much… erm… aftersh-'

'Yeah. _Charming_, Sherlock. Thank you _very_ much.'

'You're most welcome,' he replied sluggishly, before hauling his tired body back to his bedroom and shutting the door loudly behind him.

'Great, well done, John,' Mary frowned at her husband.

John gaped his mouth open and looked up to the ceiling. He scratched the back of his head and mumbled something indistinguishable.

He walked to his chair and plumped himself into the cushion and Mary sat beside him on the arm. She closed her eyes for a moment, smiled weakly and held John's hand.

'I don't get what I have done wrong?'

'It's just, well you haven't. I guess he doesn't want to put up with the sarcasm on top of the pills and the epilepsy and the pain he must be in and the confusion and… and well everything.'

'This is ridiculous. Why him? Why Sherlock?'

'It always hurts when someone you love is ill. I guess everyone is at risk but you don't expect illnesses like epilepsy to consume your friends. It's nonsense. Why can't murderers or rapists go and get this epilepsy. It should be a punishment, and he's done nothing to deserve this.'

They both sat there for a moment, considering if there was anything they could do to help their friend.

'These walls are remarkably thin, you know, John,' the muffled and delayed response came from Sherlock's room.

'Shit,' John muttered.

He sat upright and hauled his body until he was standing on two miniature, bare feet; he then proceeded to walk towards Sherlock's room. He tentatively opened the door.

'There's no need to apologise, I'm not offended as you have clearly presumed.'

'Well, I'm still sorry, if that's any comfort.'

'It's not.'

'Okay.'

John nodded and sighed, his exhaled lasted abnormally long and caused Sherlock to laugh.

'Listen, John. Don't make a fuss about this stupid situation. I'd rather it if I didn't have it, and it is definitely not the case that I have not done anything to deserve it, I am, and always have been, an asshole. I would just rather if we… can we not… talk about it?'

'There's no point in pretending it doesn't exist. But, if it makes you feel any better, then sure. I'm pretty sure it is not that reassuring to ignore it, even when you're Sherlock Holmes. Oh, and Sherlock, you are not an asshole,' John said politely and then he kept his head extremely still and rolled his eyes upwards, 'Actually, you are. You're an asshole, but you're our asshole, okay?'

'Goodbye, John,' he said before flicking his hand towards the door and dismissing his friend.

When John shut the door behind him Sherlock smirked a little. He was an asshole, but he belonged to his friends. An asshole with a home - that was _some_ title. It cheered him up. Even though he hid behind the façade of a sociopath, he still felt. He had always been able to hush those feelings of sadness, fear, happiness and that entire lark. He had been able to shove them in a corner and be fine. However, that was getting more and more complicated as his illness had appeared.

Sherlock was about to stretch out on his bed, but then he felt the bed begin to vibrate slightly. His phone was ringing.

Lestrade.

'Hey, Sherlock, mate… you feeling okay?'

'Don't start that.'

'Erm, okay. Listen, it's hardly a massacre. But there has been another body found in a very strange place, in a very, _very_ strange way. Probably the… Actually, definitely the most strange I have come across and I don't have a clue how it was done. It's sort of amazing and crazy and twisted though… Will you come? I mean, if you're feeling up to it.'

'Of course I am feeling up to it. Why would I not be? To presume that I wouldn't be is utterly ridiculous, _Gerald,_' Sherlock retorted, spitefully. This care that his friends had expressed was really beginning to piss him off. He did not enjoy the fake concern that people felt for him.

'Greg.'

'Text me the location, I'll be there as soon as possible.' And then the call was over, abruptly. Sherlock had ended it.

Sherlock shifted his jaw. He checked his draws to ensure that he had not taken his magnifying glass and other necessary tools out of his coat and then he exited his room.

John was sat on his char and Mary was observing the yellow graffiti on the wall; running her soft skin over the multi-textured wallpaper: velvet, paper and bullet holes.

'We have a case. Get your coat.'

Mary frowned, 'What sort of case?'

'A dance.'

John then continued the pattern of frowning that was running through the Watson family right now, 'Moriarty?'

'Of course it's Moriarty,' Sherlock scoffed.

'Oh, if it's him, then I'm coming,' Mary added, she seemed excited and concerned.

'Mary, no. You are not risking your life,' John said.

'Oh?' she questioned, 'And you are? Listen, I wouldn't miss this for the world. The more the merrier… I gue-'

'My sentiments precisely,' Sherlock interrupted, 'Especially when it comes to murder! Mary, you are most welcome to help out on this case.'

John rolled his eyes. He felt like he had to be reliable. He was her husband and she was his wife, he though he was supposed to protect her. But, Sherlock was happy with Mary coming along. Mary was good to Sherlock and John had realised that it was healthy for him to behave positively around other people. If Mary was no help at the crime scene, she would always be a help to Sherlock, John figured. She would certainly be staying. Besides, she was more than capable of protecting herself. That was clear from the little that John did know about her past.

'Fine, Mary. You can come, of course you can. Sorry, I am sorry; I didn't doubt you or anything.'

Mary smiled, anticipating an interesting experience. She had never really helped Sherlock and John on a crime scene before, she had aided them in saving Major Sholto during the most dramatic moments of their wedding day, but that wasn't particularly a case, she just wanted to save a life.

'So,' John began, 'Where is the body?'

Sherlock's phone made a pinging sound as they exited the flat. The timing was faultless. Then another text came through.

He reached into his pocket and stared at the messages from Lestrade. His eyebrows were furrowed to a point where he looked completely confuse, baffled and amazed at the same time. Then, he began to giggle and he twisted his phone towards John and Mary, who stared. They were perplexed.

The first text read: **I'm stumped. –GL**

And the second text was an image.

A large structure, architecture that was circular with 30 oval compartments attached.

It was a photograph of the_ London Eye_ from a short distance, and it was closed of by police tape from the excessive amount of angry tourists who were being warded away.

Sherlock hailed a cab immediately, 'Take us to the London Eye, please,' Sherlock demanded. On his face there was a massive, anticipating smile which dictated his normally emotionless face.


	8. The London Eye Mystery

I think my brain might implode and I don't know if this will be over complicated. And it is probably impractical but, hell, it's fiction! Oh well, I worked super hard on it and I bet there is a tonne of mistakes but my brain hurts! Be warned, it's a long one, and I have not checked it thoroughly...

Reviews are helpful and encouraging

Lets go!

* * *

'The London-bloody-Eye?'

'Yes, John. The London Eye, did you only just gather that?'

'Yeah… well you only just pointed it out.'

'I suppose I did. Prime spot for a murder, mind.'

'If it was murder,' John stated, he looked at Sherlock who was grimacing, 'Just saying, I mean we've seen so much crime from murder to suicide – it could be anything.'

Sherlock said nothing. Mary and John sat on each side of him and the awkward silence flooded through the black vehicle.

John and Mary turned their heads and watched the city life, which was marvelously less glamorous than it was made out to be. It consisted of people lying in fabric sleeping bags outside dodgy convenience stores, business people rushing around and sirens sounding because of the high crime rate.

When they arrived in Waterloo, London started to look less dodgy. There was life and color blooming near the National Theater and tourists were starting to emerge with their cameras. They seemed to enjoy London.

The taxi pulled in next to the pavement, 'I'll have to stop here, mate. The roads blocked off with and I think there is a diversion even for people on foot, not sure if that's going to stop you from whatever it is you are doing. There's been a crime or something.'

'I know, we are with the police,' Sherlock said.

'Sort of,' John added while Sherlock handed a wad of notes to the driver.

'Keep the change,' Sherlock told him while rushing out the door, stepping clumsily over Mary on his way out. Mary followed, and then John came hurrying after them.

Sherlock started walking calmly, and then he picked his pace up until he was almost jogging. John had gotten used to Sherlock's quick pace and Mary had only experienced it but she was never really good at sports when she was young' she came in last place in the 200 metres at her school sports day every year. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy a bit of exercise, she just wasn't exceptionally fast and Sherlock seemed to dismiss that.

'Oi! Sherlock, can you slow down a bit. It's just… Mary,' John heaved the words out of his lungs, gasping for breath.

'John,' Mary intervened, 'Don't you be silly, I'll catch up. Let Greg know I'm coming so I don't get warded away, please.'

John faltered for a moment, considering if he should catch up with Sherlock or stay with his wife. He frowned and then smiled at Mary faintly; he then cocked his head to the side and sprinted after his best friend.

They walked under a couple of bridges and passed an empty market, when they turned the corner they could see the massive wheel and sense the angry atmosphere that surrounded the landmark. People were sat on the grass and they could be heard saying spiteful things about how they deserved a refund because they had booked tickets. John couldn't stop himself from glaring at them, someone had died and they had no respect.

Sherlock walked briskly towards the wheel. He raised the police tape and made his way underneath, one inspector looked weary and was about to stop the willowy man from entering. Then another grabbed their shoulder and stopped them from questioning Sherlock and John. They walked towards where there seemed to be the most commotion.

A woman appeared from the crowd and rushed over to Sherlock.

'Hello, freak. Were you invited?'

Sherlock nudged past Sergeant Donovan and then acknowledged her presence; he nodded swiftly before simply asking where the body was.

'Erm, go to the main entrance for tourists and you'll find Lestrade there, he'll guide you to it,' She offered him a gesture directing him to the entrance.

John followed Sherlock, he struggled to keep up; only because his legs were smaller and travelling on short legs was always more difficult than taking long strides. They reached the main entrance and the turmoil of the crime scene started to calm down. They were inside a glass space, which was quieter than the outside and a lot warmer.

John looked around for his grey haired friend, but they couldn't see him anywhere. So John got the attention of another officer.

'Excuse me, where is Detective Inspector Lestrade, we need to see him,' He asked before adding, 'immediately.'

The officer was dressed in a standard uniform and looked puzzled. He looked up, trying to recall something, 'Oh, he's very busy now. I can tell him you are here.'

'Please do,' Sherlock shot his words to the officer spitefully, like a bullet from a gun, 'He will come immediately once he knows we have arrived.'

The youthful man looked somewhat intimidated, and then he rushed off to fetch the DI.

'How do you know that?'

'Know what?' Sherlock asked.

'Know that he'll come straight away, he hasn't done that before?'

'Because a) he is useless and lost without my help and b) he has not seen me in person since… the incident. He called me here because he is baffled by a case that I will, without a doubt, find a lot less daunting. But, he is also interested in seeing how I am doing, which is ridiculous. However, I will use that to my advantage if it does get me on a scene quicker.'

'That's cruel. He cares and you are just using it to your potential. I swear to God we have talked about this before…'

'He doesn't care. All humans who stoop as low as showing concern for another are, in my interest, foolish. Lestrade might do this, but to care for _me_ would be one of the most foolish decisions.'

John scoffed at Sherlock's comment, but he did not say anything else on the matter. He knew that Sherlock was cared for by many people, but fighting with his ignorance to accept that would be stupid. He would not win; no one ever won an argument with Sherlock.

John turned away from Sherlock and noticed that Mary standing by the tape; she appeared to be arguing with Sally.

'Shit. Didn't get a chance to tell anyone Mary would be here…'

'I'll sort it out.'

Sherlock walked outside and John watched him stride confidently over to Sally and Mary. He seemed to say something that had offended Sally and it appeared that they were arguing. John could not distinguish a world that was being said. Then Sally reluctantly lifted up the tape and Mary walked with Sherlock. They were both behaving as they normally would. Then before they entered the building Mary started to snigger and Sherlock appeared to have a smile emerging on his face. John furrowed his eyebrows at this.

They then walked into the glass entrance and behaved normally again.

'What was that?'

'What was what?' Mary asked.

'You two seemed very entertained by something.'

'It was nothing.' Sherlock insisted.

'Hm, but his nibs here, well, I don't know how they still let him on crime scenes the way he behaves!'

'Most people don't actually want him here.'

'I'm sure that is not true,' Mary said sweetly.

'It is. Definitely. But, Sergeant Donovan is not a nice person. Has multiple affairs, doesn't treat her colleagues well behind her back, and calls people… names. She just isn't nice. She deserves to know that her nick name with the Scotland Yarders is the-frizzy-haired-dragon,' Sherlock stated this so innocently, and then Mary bit her sweet, pink lower lip to prevent herself from bursting into a fit of laughter. She failed.

Sherlock looked at her and smirked faintly with his lips. John enjoyed seeing them together; Mary had been good to Sherlock. Well, she had offered him support and been a friend. He had to keep telling himself to forget that she _almos_t killed him, but did not mean to and Sherlock had faith in that, so John did to. That was in the past. Now, they were just cheerful. John was fine with that.

Sherlock then glanced past John's shoulder and saw Lestrade gesturing at them to come over.

'Look, I need your help.'

'As always,' Sherlock stated.

'Mary,' Lestrade looked at her with a sense of surprise, 'It's good to see you. Are you…'

'Consulting?' Mary joked, 'I've come to help out. Sounded like an interesting case.'

'Right, well the body is this way. It's certainly _interesting_.'

Lestrade started to walk through the glass entrance. They walked past areas that would normally be taped off to transform the area into a twisting, extended queue. Then they walked towards the platform where people would stop before being led into a compartment to take a half an hour journey around the wheel.

Sherlock revolved his body while walking through the area; he observed the area from the floor to the visible sky through the transparent glass. It was never obvious how much detail Sherlock saw, but John knew that he would be seeing a lot more than he could even consider observing.

They were then led inside one of the 30 oval pods that were attached to the wheel. Sherlock walked straight inside, enthusiastically. John faltered for a moment and then followed Sherlock. Mary looked repulsed, but she entered the compartment without arguing.

On the metallic floor of the pod was the body of a male, supposedly in his forties. There was a blade emerging through his stomach, it had pierced through his body completely.

Lestrade glimpsed over at Sherlock who was still looking up, down, left, right and squeezing his eyes together in concentration, 'Baffled yet?'

'Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant! This is amazing.'

'Sherlock,' John looked at him sternly, 'Dead man, remember?'

Sherlock raised the side of his mouth in contempt and then knelt by the body. He started to look through his magnifying glass suspiciously; he touched the body with his gloved hands and then looked up at Lestrade.

'Camera?'

'The CCTV footage was checked. It's blank. The camera was working for the people that went round this thing before him, but then before he entered it just… goes black.'

Lestrade walked to the other side of the body and Mary prompted herself on the bench in the middle of the pod.

Lestrade started to tell Sherlock all the evidence that had been gathered, 'Male, 44, we have contacted his family, no idea how anyone got the blade in here, everyone is thoroughly checked by a security guard before getting on the wheel, he was in a supposedly happy marriage-'

'A bit too happy…'

'Sorry, what?' Lestrade looked at Sherlock who looked back at him.

'His hands are smooth and he has a more than one scar,' Sherlock said while pointing to back of the man's neck, which was hardly visible since he was lying on his back, 'He got those scars from a woman who doesn't file their nails as much as they really should, suggesting that she did not care about what he thought of her personal hygiene, he received them during some sort of… sexual activity, and some are old and some are fresh, this morning even. A bit too happy, doing that in the morning don't you think. Especially since he is wearing a suit and works in an office, which I saw from the business card in a plastic bag that one of your forensic team was being careless with earlier.'

'Honestly?' Lestrade asked; his jaw was hanging wide open, 'That's erm, well…'

'That's not why you called me here though. You want to know how. The why is still more important when concerning Moriarty, but I'll get to the bottom of this.'

Lestrade's mouth was still hanging broadly open, 'Hold on a second. Moriarty?'

'You didn't tell him? Sherlock you can't keep information from the police like that…' John said quietly from a short distance.

'Sorry, I was considerably preoccupied in a hospital bed to think about that.'

'_Sherlock_…' John started.

Sherlock dismissed whatever John was going to say with a hand gesture. He seemed to be flicking John's voice away. He crouched down in front of the body. And stared at it, he pursed his lips tightly and moved his lips around his face in a circular motion.

'Moriarty has been leaving messages again, like he did with those bombing a few years ago. The pole dancing incident was one of them and this is the second.'

Lestrade just nodded, he felt like saying anything would be a large distraction to Sherlock who was still shifting his head from side to side trying to observe every detail.

'How? How? How? You need to know how. Are there still staff and engineers around who work at this ridiculous, money-hungry landmark?'

'Yeah.' Lestrade answered.

'Inform them that we are going for a ride.'

Lestrade looked at Sherlock inquisitively. He furrowed his eyebrows and sniggered a little, he made eye contact with John who just shrugged his shoulders.

'Okay, I'll go and ask. Can't promise anything.'

Sherlock sat down on the floor next to the body and looked at John and Mary who were looking confused. They then glanced at each other for a moment.

'If you have questions I cannot see why you find it so complicated to ask. I think I need to ride this thing to know when he dies, if he even died in here and how it was possible. There could have been someone else in here and somehow they escaped. Or it could have been a suicide but it is still amazingly confusing and a truly wonderful murder. I definitely praise Jim for his work here. Neat.'

'Okay, brilliant plan to have a free ride even if all else fails,' John said jokingly. He then proceeded to say something else, but he turned away and spoke silently to himself.

'I've never been round this before,' Mary said happily, and then her tone changed, 'I don't think I planned for my first ride to be in a pod with a man who has, um, been impaled. That should be… _fun_.'

Sherlock saw Lestrade walking back towards Mary, John and himself. Lestrade noticed Sherlock staring at him questioningly and then he nodded, he entered the pod and then they started to move very slowly, as it moved and was still low down a member of staff checked that it was secure, took a quick look at the body and then scurried away. And soon the four of them, plus a deceased body, were starting a half an hour trip, trapped in the circular construction.

Mary was at the side of the pod, staring out at the city which was starting to look further away but way more vast and complicated than anyone could imagine. She was trying not to stare at the gruesome sight which she would not be able to escape from.

'So,' John started, 'How does this help, Sherlock?'

'It gives me an idea of what happened, when the murder happened and possibly how it was done. I think I'll have figured it out by the end of this circle.'

'Really?' Lestrade questioned, there was hope resonating in his voice.

'I'm positive. The more _impossible_ a crime looks, the more _limited_ the solutions are.'

The compartment which the crime solving duo, the detective, Mary and the body were in was ascending. It climbed up and everyone but Sherlock and the dead man gazed outside the window at the city which seemed more striking from this angle than it had ever seemed before. No one said anything because they all knew Sherlock's behaviour too well. He would be stressed in the situation and if anyone distracted him by the slightest chatter it could impair his judgement and he would be very unhappy.

They would only speak if spoken to or if it was vital, that was the decision that John and Sherlock made a while ago.

They were floating closer to the surface every moment, and soon they would be sinking. When Mary looked at the river Thames on a normal day it looked a grey-brown, and even when it glistened in the sun the pungent smell made it seem disgusting. However, from this height she looked down at the dazzling water as it twinkle in the sunlight, it looked blue and every moment she felt a little more respect for the city. She looked in the distance and tried to find the place where they lived on the outskirts of London, near the metropolitan line in Harrow on the Hill.

Both John and Lestrade didn't look out of the window. They had seen the city from greater heights when in helicopters for some of the tedious cases they have been involved in, but what never ceased to amaze them was Sherlock making a deduction. Watching a talented man be so clever could be amazing, scary, confusing and weird. But, it was nothing short of spectacular.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was making his way around the pod and looking at the situation from every angle.

'Idiot. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.'

'Sherlock? You going to tell us what you've realised?' Asked John.

'I have been to consumed in what I _can_ see, but it never crossed my mind that I should be observing what I _can't_ see.'

'And that is?' Lestrade invited Sherlock to tell them.

'When you are moments away from reaching the top of this wheel you can see that side of the pod that is currently at the summit, right?' Sherlock pointed to the pod that was above them, before they reached the top, 'But you can't see the other side. That means the murder happened at the summit because no one on in the pod next to it would have seen the person die.'

'What about the people on the other pod next to it?' Mary inquired.

'They were in on it. But, they would have gotten off before a body was found by staff... I'll talk about that in a moment. Giving them the perfect opportunity to escape. And the people who couldn't see the murder happen would be able to see the body but only when they came very close to exiting the journey, they would _notice_ a body when the staff _found_ the body. Because of the way the wheel circulates, certain angles are blocked from our vision. They would have no time to look out for suspicious behavior because they would not realise anything was wrong until the body had alredy been found. Check who had tickets booked for the pod; it was full of people who were in on it. It isn't a busy day so there probably would not be many people involved. The staff tend to let less people on each pod if the ques is short and moving slowly. The camera should still be working; if not there will be a way of tracking them down.'

'How did the murderer get out?' John asked.

'They didn't,' Sherlock said. At this moment Mary stared at him with wide eyes, she looked terrified. 'No, no. They are not still in here, don't think ridiculous things, Mary. there are no floor boards hiding them and you wont look up and see them suspended from the ceiling. They were never in here.'

'So, he killed himself,' Lestrade concluded.

'No, detective. He _didn't_ kill himself. Moriarty, oh James how I have missed his work, do you know how he works? He's done it before. Breaking into all those secure locations – daylight robbery. Certain members of staff knew what was happening. Find out whose shift is was as the security guard at about fifteen minutes before the time of death. They were in on it. Also, people come in the pods after each circle and check for metal and rubbish or suspicious items, arrest those who were working before his murder. They were also in on it.'

'I don't understand why they would kill him.' Said John

'Look, it is a terrible day, with mostly clouds occupying the once blue sky. Hardly anyone would waste money on sightseeing in this weather. So, this weather must have been forecasted and Moriarty knows that not many people would be in here, they couldn't know that it would be just one. But they did. It was not his intention to cause a massacre.'

'How did they actually kill him then, if they weren't in here?' Lestrade asked.

'I suspect the people who are supposed to check the pods for suspicious items and clear them out left the blade in here and somehow the victim was disposed to some drug. Clearly, a hallucinogenic. If it was disposed through the air it would be affecting us now, so it must have been given to them another way. He must have seen something terrifying, like when we both saw the hound, John. He would have used the only weapon available and tried to fight it. The murderers probably expected him to hurt himself by cutting it into his throat as an accident. But, it got lodged in the ground and he landed on it backwards by falling the wrong way. How unfortunate. Some poster must have been put here, on the side of the people who were not in on the plan, so that he would stay back and on the other side so that when he died he would not be visible to them from the angle they were at, even less visible if he landed on the side of the bend which he did land on. It worked well. It didn't go to plan, but that simply meant that it looked more like a murder than a suicide. If there were more people in the pod the chances are he would have killed them to, and then there would be an investigation into why. I guess we should be thankful that this happened, it made it easier. I don't see why they wanted to make it look like a suicide, but that might be a part of Moriarty's message. Hmm, the drug is probably very undetectable when it has entered the body, so it must have been something he willingly and unknowingly consumed. Get your team to check the bins, and if you find anything suspicious send it to Bart's for Molly Hooper to check out.'

'Sherlock,' Lestrade started, 'Molly is great but she is a pathologist, not a forensic scientist. I hsve those on my team and I will send the information to them.'

'She understands how these things affect the body, and I hate to offend your forensics team, but they'd be better of with Anderson employed. He was a bit of an idiot, but he knew what he was doing and in his obsession with me I guess I owe him a favour. Anyway, I trust Molly, and she is clever and observant.'

'I'll see what I can do.'

'I am still confused and I don't get it, Moriarty's message… I don't understand.' John retorted.

'I'm working on it,' Said Sherlock.

'I really don't understand how you do this, it's amazing, Sherlock, you are so clever,' said Mary, 'I like this wheel, you know, but I wish we didn't have fifteen minutes left until we could get off. I don't really enjoy being trapped within the five metre radius of a dead body. The poor, poor man. He doesn't deserve this.'

Everyone fell silent for a moment and they glimpsed at the lifeless body that was sprawled across the floor. A dried pool of crimson blood rested on the floor.

'Well,' John began, 'Moriarty is a psychopath,' he started to chuckle to himself and then started to speak again, 'Opposites attract. Sherlock, the sociopath and Moriarty, the psychopath and their never-ending game. In all seriousness, this should stop, Sherlock.'

Sherlock didn't say anything in response, this would be normal but he tended to respond to John whenever he made a foolish, witty remark.

'Sherlock?' John cooed before even looking at his friend.

Sherlock was stood on the side of the glass pod, he leant against the barrier and his eyes looked excessively glazy.

'Christ,' John quaked, 'Can you hear me? Sherlock?' John spoke softly to his friend.

Mary grabbed Lestrade by the shoulder and pulled him backwards gently, she knew that Sherlock needed space because he looked very much like he was about to take a seizure.

'John…' Sherlock breathed heavily, 'I can hear… s'okay.'

'Nope. It's really not okay.' John said while he slid his arm behind Sherlock skinny back and tenderly started to move him, 'look I need you to sit down, we don't want you to fall and we won't be able to get help for nearly quarter of an hour. Can you do that? Please, Sherlock, for me? Gently.. .' He spoke as he led his friend towards the cold, hard metal floor, 'Slowly…' He watched as his friend grabbed his wrists and tried to drop heavily, John supported him so that he did not drop suddenly because he was still conscious and John knew that he could help him for a bit, 'That's good. That's great, well done,' he said as Sherlock located his vulnerable, bony body on the cold floor.

'Sherlock,' Mary called softly from the other side of the room, 'I have some water in my bag. I'm going to get that and you are going to take a sip. Is that okay?'

Sherlock merely nodded, and he did that barely.

Mary handed John the transparent, plastic bottle that was in her orange bag. John then took a firm but gentle hold of Sherlock's chin and beckoned his to twist his head upwards, which he did. He then proceeded to pour a petite drop of water into Sherlock's dry mouth. Sherlock gulped it and made a loud noise as he swallowed, so John poured more. He then stopped because he did not want the consulting detective to run out of water to drink.

'How are you feeling?' John asked.

'Um,' Sherlock mumbled, 'Dizzy... Not good.'

'Okay, we can move you so that you're lying down and away from the pole supporting that banister. You know what happened last time there was a pole involved!'

John had attempted to use humour, but he noticed that Sherlock was not responding positively to it, so he decided that was not such a good idea.

He then got Sherlock lying on his back. Sherlock lay there silently; he was shivering on the cold, metal ground.

'Jesus, can't they hurry this damn thing up a bit!' Lestrade yelled.

Mary stared at Lestrade and quietly hushed him. She knew that Sherlock did not need noise now. Lestrade, however, was the only fully capable man in the pod that had not worked in or around medicine, patents and health. So, he did not completely know how to handle the situation. He had only dealt with Sherlock in such a low state when he had found him high, and the best way to handle a drug addled Sherlock was to be affirmative. That was something the people closest to him had picked up on when they had found him at his darkest times and abusing substances.

'I'm okay,' Sherlock said.

'No, Sherlock. You're not,' John whispered reassuringly to his friend.

'I am. I feel better now. I am better now. Honestly. It was just a really bad dizzy spell. I have experienced those before.'

'Christ, you scared us!' Lestrade stated.

'Have some more water,' Added Mary.

'Sherlock,' John said slowly, he was attempting to give Sherlock some advice while helping him drink some water, 'When you get back home can you write me a list of all these symptoms because I know you haven't, and won't, talk about all of them with the doctors, and I need to know so that I can help. I thought you were going to take a bloody seizure.'

'Oh, for God's sake. Seizure this, _seizure that_. I have lost the ability to cope with you people.'

The wheel had nearly completed a full cycle now.

'Sherlock, John's worried. We all are,' Gulped Mary.

Sherlock remained silent until the doors were about to be opened.

'What I said earlier, Lestrade, listen to me. Check the bins, and send anything suspicious to Molly. I trust her. I am certain am I right about how it was done, that's not important now. _Why?_ Anyway, Mary, I need correct you on what you said. You're not worried. No one is. So, I want you all to stop pretending you are. It's tiresome and I don't like being distracted from my work. I. Am. Fine.'

The doors to the pod opened and before anyone could stop him, Sherlock dashed out of the pod and fled the crime scene. Mary, Lestrade and John walked off of the pod and stood stationary. They said nothing, but they all exchanged worried glances.


End file.
